Pacific Wolf
by ForeverHermit
Summary: Inspired by a tumblr post: Stiles and Lydia are drift compatible. Mostly platonic Stydia with a hint of Sterek. T for language. Also, feelings


Teen Wolf is trying really hard to make me ship Stydia and, damn it, they've almost got me! But the Sterek is strong with this one.

Inspired by last week's episode, you know, the whole kiss and drown-your-loved-ones matchup thing. Also, this post by bonesbuckleup (she's also Ultra-Geek on this site-check out her stuff, it's good!) on tumblr: post/58117222354/stiles-and-lydia-are-drift-compat ible-pass-it-on

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I make no profit from this story.

* * *

Stiles glares at Derek's retreating, wife beater-covered back, half-heartedly tracking the pull and flex of sinews beneath the tanned skin and only slightly less tight white fabric. His viciously narrow hips (the dude's torso is like a triangle, for christ sakes) swing lazily, side to side, with each step. If the man weren't so damn attractive his walk would be less of a swagger and more of a bowlegged waddle.

Jerk.

A familiar, amused scoff catches Stiles' attention. He spins on his heel, lax arms flowing through and with the movement. He leans one shoulder casually against the wall and takes in all five imposing feet of his co-pilot, Lydia Martin. She's as stunning as ever, decked out in simple, solid black tights and a loose workout tee. The harsh facility lights halo her head, touching gold on her hair, which she has bunched up in a messy bun. His redhead, unimpressed with the world, as always, stands ramrod straight, feet apart and arms loosely crossed. Just another reason they work so well together: whereas Lydia does everything with scarily sharp precision, Stiles acts with fluidity. They somehow counter and balance one another perfectly. His moves are just as strong as they are unpredictable, but she managed to figure him out (still does so, now), even when he didn't or doesn't know just what he's going to do next.

"Had another tiff with the resident sourpuss?" She isn't actually asking.

Stiles glances over his shoulder but Derek has already rounded the corner at the end of the hallway. "He was criticizing my fighting style. Again." He looks back at Lydia, who already seems bored with his complaints. "This is the third time he's offered to train me, like I'm some goddamn _rookie_." Stiles knows his reputation stands as more reckless and impulsive than others', that all of his wins (far from record-breaking as they may rank) resulted from unexpected stunts, some creativity, and/or sheer dumb luck more than much real skill—_even so_, he still knows how to_ fight_. He knows how to run in a Jaeger, figuratively and literally. He knows how to take down a Kaiju, how to save lives. And—this may count as the only record-breaking thing about him—he has never lost a co-pilot, which is more than can be said of Derek.

Well… that last bit is just plain insensitive, but Stiles thinks he's allowed, at least in his own semi-private mind. Mostly because Derek gets all uppity and annoyed after every rejection to train, as if Stiles should be grateful just for Hale's very presence, which usually leads to a "tiff" as Lydia puts it. As far as Stiles is concerned, fuck all that noise. He refuses to spend extra hours upon hours in the dojo because some demigod amongst mortals cannot rein in his own ego. He had enough of that with Jackson, before he ran off to Europe.

Lydia mutters something, mostly under her breath. Normally she never says anything she does not mean for others to hear, so with a grimace he takes his medicine. Reluctantly, he asks, "Come again?"

His redhead widens her eyes, trying to either appear innocent, dumb, or just blank. He does not understand why she still does this to him. He has been inside her head dozens of times. Yet, on occasion, she whips out her old tricks, hiding behind expectations like a mask and utilizing her own patented social techniques. He could pass it off as habit, but Stiles knows his_ own_ tendencies too well to believe that about Lydia. Her eyebrows perk up. "Maybe you should," she says—and yep, definitely playing angelic ignorance this time.

"Would _you _like to train with _him_?" Stiles shoots back.

With a cold snap, Lydia's face closes off again, becoming shrewd and dissatisfied—which, ironically, is one of her more sincere expressions. At least this way he knows she's not actively trying to manipulate him. She rolls her eyes, a better sign that she's through with the matter entirely. "Come on." She loops her arm through his and tugs. "You're already late for _our_ training session."

He follows easily, moving with her pull. "You're evading," he informs her in a cheerful sing-song.

"No," she rebuttles, "I'm changing the subject. _You're _ the one who's evading."

They argue over semantics for the next twenty minutes on the way to the dojo. On the mat Stiles tries to bring it up again, restate his case. In his distraction, Lydia sweeps low and knocks him off his feet. Wouldn't be the first time.

* * *

The clack and groan of old iron alerts Stiles to his favorite intruder. She knows the lock combination better than he does most days, especially in the morning. He holds up his index finger, the universal sign of_ give me a fucking moment_, because he feels like being an ass, and finishes the paragraph he's currently reading. It's his mother's first edition copy of _A Wrinkle in Time_. He reads it at least twice a year, taking his comforts where he can find them. One would think he would be over aliens and other sci-fi shit, but no. Lydia likes regency romances and thick science textbooks. Sometimes, she also reads texts by some ancient Greek mathematician; they make her laugh.

Lydia struts her way across the small room (military, after all) and plops her perfect butt down on his spring mattress. He looks up from his book after marking the page with a torn piece of newspaper.

"I don't like him," she announces seriously—not as if she's complaining, rather just stating a fact—the way most people comment on the weather or what they had for breakfast.

Some time ago, Stiles might have ventured a sarcastic "Jackson?" as a joke, but even since before they partnered up he's known not to mention—or think—that name. Today, instead, valuing the safety of his testicles, Stiles asks a simple, "Who?"

"Hale."

"Peter?" The man is officially retired but still has pull with the military. Somehow, he manages to regularly sneak back into the compound, bugging and creeping out everyone as a rule, each time.

"No, the other one."

"Derek?"

"Yes."

Stiles snorts derisively. "Welcome to the club."

Derek Hales annoys the crap out of Stiles. It is not just his marble-etched face of seven expressions (all douche-tastic) or his ridiculous muscles decked out in painted on clothing or even his perma-frown—it's his inconsistency. Mostly. Among other things. The dude volleys back and forth between belittling bastard to incompetent screw-up, from suspiciously serial killer-esque to a sad, lonely bucket of guilt complexes. He makes terrible decisions, but at the same time usually finds himself in no-win situations completely out of his control. He's always smashing or bleeding himself through life. Despite his clear dedication to his appearance (there's no way that's any way natural or accidental, Stiles refuses to believe that), Derek does not seem to care about himself or his life at all. Stiles doesn't know whether he should pity or punch the guy; maybe yell at him and then bundle him in a blanket cocoon and feed him homemade lasagna. It's frustrating—_he's _frustrating and irks Stiles to no end.

Also, he's a dick—but still sometimes a fucking hilarious sassmaster and, like, how—

No. He's just a dick, Stiles reaffirms.

Lydia knows all of this (How couldn't she?) and shares at least some of his thoughts on the matter. So, it is surprising to say the least, when she stares at him for a long moment and says:

"I think you should drift with him."

Stiles blinks owlishly. Did he black out and miss a good chunk of the conversation?

"What?"

"You should drift with Derek." She annunciates each word clearly and slowly.

"_Derek?_" Stiles stresses. "Derek Hale."

"Stiles."

"But!" He points at her, only flailing a little. The bed squeaks under his bouncing. "But—you just said you don't like him!"

"Yes," she replies, "that's why _I'm_ not going to drift with him."

"But_ Derek Hale?_"

"_Stiles_."

"Are you dumping me?" His voice goes high on the last word.

Lydia scoots closer so she can whap him on the forehead. "No, moron. Just drift with him, take the Jaeger out for a spin. Like a test run."

"Maybe we should try holding hands first before sliding to home base, don't cha think?" His faces heats as the words spew from his mouth. Not that he—Lydia has dirtier fantasies. Very, uh, detailed. And anyway, drifting and driving a Jaeger is not something just anyone can do on a dull weekday afternoon. "We—Derek and I should at least test our compatibility on the mat."

Unconcerned, Lydia waves away his words and crawls up the mattress, settling in on her side closest to the wall. She likes it when they nap and he curls around her back, tucking his knees under hers so that she's pretty much enclosed while she sleeps. Jackson used to insist on being the little spoon, back when they were co-pilots and lovers (the fact that he's seen Jackson's 'oh' face through Lydia's eyes will forever haunt him, even in death); it never really bothered her during their relationship, actually sort of empowered her, but after bonding it was clear Stiles was a more adept (read: clingy) cuddler than Lydia, more suited to the big spoon position.

"Unnecessary." She shifts and pulls his duvet so it's just covering her feet. He keeps trying to convince her to wear the tube socks he bought her, especially in bed because her feet are like _ice_, but she claims they are too thick to wear with her fashionable boots. "You two clearly have chemistry. Testing for compatibility would be a waste of time. You've already got it."

"Enough to get us both killed five seconds into a Kaiju attack," Stiles grumbles. He places his book on the bedside table and turns on his side to better speak with her. "Not that it matters because it's _not happening_."

Lydia frowns, narrows her eyes at him. Why is she being so damn stubborn about this?

"Any reason why you wanna set me up with the cursed pilot of doom? You wanna get rid of me that quick, huh?" He pokes her side and smiles slyly to make up for the insecurity in his tone.

"Quit it. And no. You're much more valuable to me breathing."

"Lydia."

"Just do it."

"_Lydia_."

She turns her big, green eyes on him, sobering and sincere. Only a little bit angry and threatening bodily harm. "Just do this for me. Okay?"

Stiles reaches (she meets him halfway) and laces his fingers with hers. "Hey." He tugs on her hand. "Yeah, I'll do it. But you have to tell me what this is all about."

Like a flower on a hot summer day, Lydia wilts, settling against his sparse array of pillows. She huffs out a sigh, no doubt irritated he did not just follow her request (read: command). "You need a back-up co-pilot, Stiles," she tells him.

"Back-up? I have a back-up. Scott's my back-up." Who better than his former co-pilot? Before Scott met Allison and Stiles became Lydia's "best chance of leaving this hellhole lab and getting some actual work done."

"He's also _my_ back-up, besides Allison. And Isaac's. And Danny's. And Deaton's, if he ever decides to re-enter the field, which he will when shit hits the fan." Stiles winces. Lydia rarely uses profanity that is not clinical.

"Okay, okay, you made your point. So, you think I should have a back-up for my back-up."

Lydia nods curtly. "Exactly."

Stiles throws out his arms, careful not to hit or jostle his bedmate in the process. "And you think it should be _Derek?_"

"Yes," she replies in her _god-why-is-that-so-hard-to-understand_ voice. It's weird hearing her use it while not also explaining quantum physics.

Stiles squints, studies her. "Are you sure you aren't dumping me?"

The first eye roll of the hour makes its special appearance. "Positive," she deadpans.

Stiles leans back against his pillow, puts on his thinking face for good measure. Derek is… Derek. Stiles will concede to Lydia's point—they _do_ have some sort of rapport, a spark even. Maybe chemistry. They have not interacted too much, had even fewer conversations than that. But… Stiles cannot deny the something that happens when they do meet up.

He's still going to insist on a test for compatibility. Not even fantastic 'chemistry' could bypass standard procedure, Stiles is sure. Granted, this all depends on the supposition that Derek will consent to this. The Derek who could go about his day without saying one word to another human being might; that's the lonely Derek. But then there is the cursed Hale, whose family was killed by monsters—the human kind, not the kind that rise from the sea—and who has lost three co-pilots (Laura to a watery grave, Peter to mental instability and forced retirement, Isaac to Scott) and two trainees (Erica and Boyd, who quit the program only to become casualties in the next major city attack). Stiles is not sure that Derek is even interested in fighting. Or surviving.

Out of the corner of his eye Stiles sees Lydia open and close her mouth, stopping herself, hesitating. It is unnatural for her. "What?"

"Stiles…" She breathes in deep, closing her eyes briefly before snapping them open. "I've been going the math. You know Kaiju attacks have only increased in severity, damages. Casualties. And they are only going to get worse."

Stiles rests his temple against the cold metal of the wall. "When the shit hits the fan," he mutters understandingly.

Lydia continues, driving on with clear purpose in her eyes. "And when it does, there's no guarantee all—any of us will make it."

Back muscles tensing, Stiles sits up straighter. "Lydia."

Direct, she stares into his eyes. "You need to be prepared, if and when it happens. Stiles, you need to go on."

"Hey. Hey." He grips her small, pale shoulder. God, sometimes she's like a porcelain doll. "Nothing is going to happen to you."

"You don't know that," she argues, but he can spot her weakening resolve. Good, he decides, we all need to feel vulnerable once in a while; as long as the right person is there to comfort.

He wraps his right arm around her shoulders and tucks her head beneath his chin. "You're not going anywhere," he says. The top of her head smells like regulation soap and whatever concoction she makes to substitute regulation shampoo and conditioner. It's minty. "And neither am I." He settles them down on the bed, hugs her.

"Okay." It's the closest she's ever sounded to childlike.

He grabs the covers, then on second thought reaches for his beaten up, scratched-to-all-hell iPod on the bedside table. He switches off the lamp. The covers follow after that. "I'll even try out with Derek," he promises. She'll make it a damn promise fulfilled. He gently puts the right headphone in her right ear and pops the other one in his left ear. It gives them an excuse to move closer, limited headphone wire and all that.

"What do you feel like?" he asks, fiddling with his outdated player. The touch screen barely recognizes his fingers and refuses to play any songs on his 80s glam rock playlist. Probably for the best.

"Something good," his redhead sighs. He's not sure if she's still talking about music. Stiles chooses their lullaby playlist of mostly slow, acoustic stuff and takes comfort in the tension gone from his co-pilot. They stare at each other for a while, bright green and golden brown, before their eyes drift closed.

Stiles dreams about running through a forest, the earth warm beneath his bare feet, before stumbling upon the coastline; the black ocean waters churning strongly but the moon hanging in the sky above it all, light cutting through the darkness, full and round as a pregnant woman's belly.


End file.
